A Movement in A Minor
by Vee-sempai
Summary: Set in Harry's seventh year. A journey through darkness and sorrow taken to preserve Harry's own sanity... and protect the world from the true threat: himself. Slash.
1. 1 Adagio

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General Author's Note- This will be my first full-length Harry Potter fic... so cut me some slack on plot and such. Characterization has always been my strong suit, not action. I realize the way I portray Harry is a little... unique. But it's the way I've always written him, and the way my mind feels he should be down the road. For a deeper look into his state of mind, read my fic "Trauma"; it will explain it a bit more in depth than I will take the time to do in the exposition of this fic. And be forewarned, this fic will include slash. Specifically, Harry/Draco. In that order. Other pairings will include Ron/Hermione because I love them, and maybe Sirius/Remus, as I'm not as of yet sure how much of a role they'll play here. If you dont like it, tough. Go read something else. If you want to flame me, just take a look at my profile. That should explain things. For those of you left, please enjoy. ^_^  
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Author's note on the title- If you're not musically inclined, it's still easy enough to explain. A Minor is a specific key that music is played in, just like B Minor or F Major, for example. The key affects what sharps or flats you play (black keys on a piano). The difference between a Major and Minor key comes in the sound- Major keys sound normal and resolved to the ear, while a Minor comes off as darker or sorrowful. Most beginner piano music is written in C Major, where you play exclusively on the white keys. This is common, run-of-the-mill. In A Minor, you still play exclusively on the white keys, but the underlying chords are different.  
*waves arms* And here's the actual point of the title!  
C Major is the "common" key signature. A Minor is its complete opposite, learned much later in your piano experience. Thus, the title explains that this fic itself is a movement through a darkness and sorrow it takes time to learn in your life, as in the summary. This is the opposite of the common, yet it is played exactly the same.  
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Adagio  
  


  
  
There was a deep chill in the air that morning.  
The thought nagged at the back of his mind like a vague itch, like the remaining pain from the scratch on his forearm. The cold didn't bother him, not so much. It woke him up as he ran along the side of the road, in the mist of the summer morning when no one was around to see.  
He had done a lot of running that summer. The burning along his calves was a familiar and calming feeling, one he knew best from clenching the broomstick with only his ankles, leaning forward to grasp for the Snitch at those long-ago Quidditch practices, Oliver's remembered voice shouting encouragement. He missed Oliver. After he graduated, things had never been the same. Quidditch was Quidditch, but he missed Oliver.  
He missed those days.   
He ran for hours. He got up at four every morning and came back in time to make the Dursleys breakfast. When he was younger, he never could have handled this much exertion. He had been little, small, pale and weak from living in a cupboard. Hogwarts and Quidditch had changed all that. As had puberty. He was taller than Uncle Vernon now. And strong. And fast.  
And he was more out of place here than ever.  
It had only been last week that Dudley had managed to coerce some girl from his school over to "tutor" him. She hadn't been a pretty girl, only a little more than plain, but she had been more than Dudley had ever gotten near him before. As the silent witness to every last one of his cousin's failed attempts at conquest of the fairer sex, he was growing expert enough to predict how long each visit would last. That one had lasted much longer than he had expected, but only because she had taken on the same shine in her eyes that Ginny had when they had first met. She'd followed him into the kitchen like a lost puppy, much to his cousins displeasure.   
He'd missed three days worth of meals for that one.  
She hadn't been the only girl to do so, either. Of course, that wasn't the only thing that had nettled his relatives this summer. Not one thing could ever be enough, not for them. No, there was the fact that he _was_ in fact taller than Uncle Vernon. That he was smarter. That he was faster and stronger and undoubtedly more powerful than the man could ever hope to be. That Aunt Petunia couldnt look at him without seeing his father.  
He'd heard them talking late one night, when he had snuck out of his room to get a drink. Her voice had been panicked, broken.  
_I only met him once, Vernon, and he was just like Lily- that same look, that same look like they were set so far apart from us- Vernon, they were monstrous! And hes just the same, hes just the same, and hes grown up to be worse! He looks just like James, James with Lily's ways, and Im so afraid-  
_Aunt Petunia was afraid of him. Uncle Vernon blustered and threatened because he was helpless. He was seventeen now. Vernon wasnt the only man in the house anymore. The old man couldnt intimidate him anymore.  
He was an adult wizard. He was nearly graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.   
He wasn't going to be pushed around anymore.  
The pavement felt good beneath his sneakers, still and silent, the slight sheen of sweat that trickled along his nose slickening the nosepads of his glasses until the rims dug into his cheeks. One hand lifted automatically to push them back, with those fingertips made delicate by long practice, darting through the night air over and over in desperate chase of that dancing golden ball. His hands were rough and calloused, but fingers long, smooth, and nearly unmarked.   
His touch drifted up to press lightly against the scar that was now a constant ache, a continual burning, one he had grown to ignore. It was that bolt of jagged flesh that had marked him, for life or for death. Years ago, he would have felt safer, knowing he was going back to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to his professors and his friends. But now the thought only twisted his stomach. He was going back.  
Back to where Voldemort could find him.  
Back to where Voldemort could find those he held most dear.  
When he was at the Dursleys, the only one he had to protect was himself. He didn't care about them. It wasn't as though they would lose sleep over his untimely death. They would more likely celebrate the new freedom his murder would give them... that was, if Voldemort let them live.   
But at Hogwarts... it was different. There... there was Ron. And Hermione. And Neville, and Seamus, and Ginny. Fred and George had graduated, so they would be safer. But all those who were left... Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall, and all the others... And Sirius, who would give his life for him in an instant. And Remus Lupin. Even Snape.   
Not even Draco Malfoy would survive.  
That thought brought a surge of bitterness to his throat, and he increased his pace, gritting his teeth as he forced his calves to pump faster. Not even Malfoy. Not even the haughty son of the most loathsome Death Eater in existence would survive this. Because the moment he tripped up his beloved father's plans, Lucius would be the first to end his wretched life. And Malfoy had to know it. If he didn't, he was a fool.  
Malfoy was many things. Odious. Arrogant. Conceited. Cowardly. But stupid he wasn't. Draco Malfoy was no fool.  
And maybe that was why he didn't understand Malfoy. All his life, he had fought to live. It was all he had left, his life. His own life, and that of his friends. But for Malfoy to know he was nothing but a pawn to his own family, that his only "friends" were the sons of his fathers "colleagues"...   
Harry had been raised with death.  
Malfoy had been raised with murder.  
The sun was peeping through the low bank of clouds just as Harry jogged into the Dursleyss driveway. He stopped in front of the door, stretching quickly. Once he had worked through his cool-down drills, he pulled the front door open, stripping his t-shirt off and heading for the downstairs bathroom to take a quick shower. The complaints would be horrendous if he smelled like sweat when making breakfast... the idea of "exercise" was anathema in the Dursley house, after all.  
The shower was quick to heat up, and Harry stripped the rest of his workout clothes off, peeling them gingerly off his sweaty skin and dropping them carelessly on the tile floor. He caught a quick glance of himself in Aunt Petunias ornamented mirror, then sighed.  
He wasn't that same little boy who had left this place all those years ago.   
The glasses that had seemed owlish and oversized then were the size of fashionable sunglasses against his eyes, the eyes that were darker and haunted with anger and fear. They'd been bright and innocent once. Before they had seen death. Before they had been forced to grow up.  
The scar was still as prominent as it ever had been. Damaged tissue grew with age, but unlike a regular cut, this one would never fade, never heal. It would always be there, reminding him that his mother had died so that he could live. It would always be there to remind him why he had to go on living.  
He couldn't let that sacrifice be in vain.  
His face was thinner now, his hair longer. Not much longer, but long enough to flip when he moved his head too sharply. And just as unruly as always, no matter how many times a day he took a comb to it. His shoulders were broader. His arms were muscled. His chest was more defined. His legs were long and trim. He wasn't a little boy anymore.  
He had never been a little boy, not in mind. He had been naive, yes. A little dense. But never had he been innocent. And never would he be. But as his body had matured, so had his outlook. He'd never been a baby, but he was older now than he had ever been.  
Harry pulled his glasses off and set them on the edge of the sink, arching one leg over the wall of the tub and stepping gingerly in. The fall of water assaulted him immediately, and he winced, letting himself adjust to the heat for a few seconds before looking for soap. Aunt Petunia would complain if she noticed, but things like that didn't matter to him this late in the summer. The Weasleys hadn't been able to take him for half the summer like last year... and he was both grateful for and annoyed by that. On one hand, it was more time at the Dursleys. On the other, though, it was more time the Weasleys were safe from his presence. And he would suffer any indignity for them. For the Weasleys, for the Grangers, for Hagrid, for Sirius.   
Anyone outside of them was out of luck, as far as he was concerned. Those were the people who had cared for him, who had sacrificed for him, who would give anything for him. He owed nothing to anyone else.  
Harry sighed, the hot water pouring along the contours of his back, puddling around his feet. He was off to Diagon Alley tomorrow, thank whatever God there was. It brought him closer to those he wanted to protect... but it also took him somewhere he was welcome. Somewhere he didnt feel like a leper. Like a burden.  
He wanted to be back with Ron and Hermione, to watch Ron blushing like a tomato every time she said something nice, to watch her struggling to hide her developing feelings. He wanted to be back in Transfiguration class, trying desperately to comprehend the latest spell tweak. He wouldnt even mind listening to Snape pick at him for hours upon end. He wanted to tease Neville. He wanted to sneak around in his Invisibility Cloak. He wanted to be eleven again. God, how he wanted to be eleven again. He wanted to shout insults at Malfoy and snipe at him during class and maybe get up the nerve to shove him in the hallway. He just wanted to be safe at Hogwarts again.  
He just wanted to-  
Suddenly, white-hot pain exploded between his eyes, burning through the bridge of his nose, stabbing through his forehead and digging deep into his brain-  
And all fell to Hell.   



	2. 2 Subito

  
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Author's Response- Well! *blush* I'm glad you like the exposition! I'd like to warn you all now, my tendency as of late has been to write EXTREMELY LONG THINGS. Just take a look at my profile... my prized fic is 23 chapters long and only half done. Hopefully, this one won't develop to that crazed extent, but I can't promise anything.  
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I don't think he's breathing, Vernon.   
Voices were swimming in and out of the pain that wrapped its sticky tentacles around every fiber of his being. He could feel lukewarm water beneath his fingertips. The shower wasn't pounding on his back anymore. Maybe they'd turned it off. He was naked, wasn't he? He didn't want them staring at him when he was naked.  
Is he dead? That was Dudley's voice. It was far too loud, far too close... oh, God, he could smell his breath. He was probably leaning right into the tub, right into his face. Maybe he's dead. Do you think he's dead?  
Well, _now_ don't you wish you'd put life insurance on me, Harry muttered dryly into the puddle beneath his cheek.  
Aunt Petunia screamed. Dudley fell down, and Harry sniggered weakly. He managed to open one eye, then winced as the light from the makeup mirror stabbed into his brain. The three of them were clustered around the bathtub, the curtain drawn back. With a flash of irritation and more than a little humiliation, he lifted a hand and pulled the curtain forward enough to cover him from waist down. He was already laying on his stomach, that was something.  
What do you think you're doing in your aunt's shower? Uncle Vernon snapped, reassured in his continued life and obviously feeling comfortable enough to yell some more.   
I think I'm lying here half-concious. Which of course is a favored pastime of mine. Harry struggled into a sitting position, then cast a hand about for a towel.  
Don't you talk to your uncle like that, you ungrateful little weasel! After we've taken you in and fed you and clothed you! Petunia's voice was livid, but her thin fingers were clutching Vernon's generous arm. Harry noticed that unconcious gesture with a flash of something that might have been anger, something that might have been bitter regret... then his fingers closed on fluffy fabric and he stood, swiftly lashing the yellow towel about his waist. Once he was reasonably decent, he arched his leg and stepped out of the shower onto the warm tile, squaring his shoulders.  
And what are you going to do about it? he asked coolly, calmly, the tone that had once been delegated exclusively to Lucius Malfoy. Undiguised hatred. Barely concealed threat. It was becoming habit nowadays, to snipe and insult, to provoke and frighten whoever looked at him crosseyed. Years ago, he never would have dared talk to his Muggle relatives this way. They controlled his life after all, and he was at their mercy.  
That had been long ago. Now they were just Muggles, and astonishingly stupid and revolting Muggles at that. They had no magic to threaten him with, and the physical size and power they had held over the terrified child he had been was now no more than a joke. Once they had dared to lock him in a cupboard. Now, if they had any sense, they would get the Hell out of his way and let him get dressed.   
Harry stood there for a few long moments, the three Muggles staring at him as water traced along his abdomen and spotted the towel. A puddle was swiftly forming about his feet.  
He waited some more. Petunia was staring at him. Vernon was red in the face. Dudley was nearly pouting.  
_Would you get out of here so I can get DRESSED?!   
_Vernon was the first out, dragging Dudley along with him. Petunia continued to stare, the weight of her gaze rather disturbing, until Harry coughed and she scuttled out like her skirt was on fire.   
Harry stared after them, then sighed and found the carefully folded robes he had placed in the bathroom earlier that morning. He left for Diagon Alley today, and by God he was leaving now. He'd pick up some breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn't as though he got any here anyway.  
He began dressing, rubbing his forehead on his arm absently as he pulled on the pair of jeans he had bought a month ago. His old clothes were practically useless now, as they had barely fit last year and he had stretched out since then. Hopefully, he was done growing now. He had been short for so long... he'd hit his growth spurt after Ron, and that had been just this shade of humiliating. So he'd been forced to shop during the summer so he wouldn't be sitting around the Dursley residence stark naked. Of course, since his privacy in that matter had just been broken, it was beginning to feel more and more like a waste of his inheritance. At least he had been intelligent enough to change a bit of it to Muggle currency at Gringotts last year.  
Oh, wait, that was a lie. Hermione had told him to do that.  
He had spent as little of it as possible, so the jeans didn't fit that well. They were rather tight, not so tight that it was uncomfortable to move, but tight enough that the surface rippled every time he tensed his calves. The shirt was just as bad, but it was sleeveless, and that was a blessing. No matter the time of year, robes were hot and stifling. Of course, the shirt itself was black, but the fabric was thin. So he would go for whatever he could get.  
Harry clasped the robe around his shoulders and slammed the bathroom door behind him, thumping up the stairs above his old room to get his bags. He was never coming back here, after all. And every possession that had stayed here fit easily into his ratty duffel bag anyway.  
Seventh year.  
After this year, he would be on his own. No more school. No more Dursleys. Maybe he, Ron, and Hermione could get a little house somewhere. Or-  
Harry grimaced, stalking into his room and catching up his bags, laying a hand on Hedwig's cage, curling a finger around curved bar. What a mess that would be. He loved Ron and Hermione dearly, but... it was becoming more and more obvious that they were loving each other in a far different way. And God knew he would gladly be the best man at their wedding, but it wouldn't be much fun to live with the lovestruck couple with no hope of escape.  
He took one last glance about the room he had lived in for the past few years... or rather, existed in. There was no need to tell the Dursleys he was leaving. They knew he would be gone today, and he reckoned they were looking forward to it as much as he was. It'd be best to get it over with as fast as possible. And get on with the rest of his life.  
However long or short that life might be.  
With a tiny, bitter smile, Harry took up the journal he had enchanted as a Portkey, clinging to the few possessions of his pathetic life, letting the familiar tug behind his breastbone take him away.  
  
Harry blinked owlishly and resettled his glasses on his nose, staring blanky through them until his eyes refocused. Diagon Alley... it seemed his spell had worked after all.  
Why, Harry!   
That delighted voice was one he welcomed, one that almost tugged a heartfelt smile onto his lips. Harry turned, still a tad disoriented, and looked down into the familiar face of Hermione Granger.  
The early stages of adolescence had not been kind to Hermione, making the poor girl even more of a target for Pansy Parkinson and her gaggle of cronies. Fifth year and sixth year had brought her nothing but jibes from her enemies and sympathy from her friends. It was one of the few memories of those times that felt warm to him- Ron, who had been so adamant on physical perfection in fourth year, had fallen head over heels for her when she had been at the height of her... unfortunate hormonal changes.  
And so it was with a little surprise that he regarded her now. Yes, things had begun to clear up for her at the end of last year, but...  
Hermione was _pretty._  
Her complexion had cleared, and remained the silky white of too much time spent in the library. Her eyes had always been expressive, most often radiating pure annoyance, but with that beautiful smile on her face, she positively glowed. The hair that had resembled a poofball when she was younger now exhibited the body and volume that so many girls her age would kill for. The robes that floated about her in the slight breeze revealed the figure she had kept by a lack of overindulgence, but also showed the... reshaping that her rocky puberty had rewarded her with.  
Hermione was _really pretty._  
he offered a few minutes later than he should have. Hermione smiled at him with the familiar sisterly fondness, then lifted the bag she was carrying for his inspection.  
Have you gone for your books yet? Our Transfiguration reading is-  
Abs'lutely DEADLY. Don't listen t' a word she says, Harry.  
Harry turned to meet Ron's eyes with a weak grin, then blinked. Up.  
My God, you're huge, he observed faintly.  
He could hear Hermione giggling behind him. Ron scratched at his neck, looking sheepish. You have to be over six feet! Harry protested, taking a staggering step back. Yeah, Ron had always towered over him. But he'd thought- he'd been so sure that he would have at least matched him. He had grown to be tall himself! He was five-eleven-  
I'm six-three, yeah. Ron grinned at him, then patted his shoulder condescendingly. It's okay, Harry. I guess you're doomed t' be a midget.  
I'm not a midget! Harry retorted, feeling better than he had in... months, really... It always had made him feel better to spend time with his dear friends, the ones he trusted, the ones he loved... Ron and Hermione followed him out into the busy street as he headed for Gringotts to get out the money he would need, Hermione doomed to listen to them squabble with evident affection, Ron obviously up to the challenge of-  
  
Harry yelped as the air was knocked out of his lungs, something quite solid puching into his stomach as he tripped over whatever or whoever had been in his path. They fell into a mess of tangled legs and robes, Harry's glasses digging into his cheek, an arm elbowing him soundly in the thigh as they struggled on the ground.  
Once he got his balance again, Harry attempted to stand, but the collar of his robe caught against the other's clasp, and it nearly strangled him. The battle his assailant was putting up wasn't helping too much, and with a growl of irritation, Harry wrenched a leg free and used it to pin the other to the ground.  
Hold still, damn you, and I'll get us out of this! Harry snapped, fingers working at the two clasps as nimbly as they could. A knee rammed up between his thighs, but Harry caught it with his other leg, knocking the attack back and pinning that knee to the ground as well. The clasps were refusing to come undone, and he scooted up further to perch on the thin waist and narrow hips, tearing angrily at the hooked metal.  
The teenager he had pinned was still struggling violently, and Harry glanced up to warn his next subjation wouldn't be so passive, when he finally caught sight of the face and identity of the boy thrashing on the dusty ground beneath him.  
  
Would you_ get off me you_ -  
Their eyes met, startled emerald to incredulous grey, and they stared for a few minutes. It was, indeed, Draco Malfoy- his sleek blond hair tousled and dusty, his pale skin rosy and livid with exertion and anger.   
One pale eyebrow furrowed as Malfoy contemplated him in seeming disbelief. It was as though it took a moment to recognize him, to recognize that the boy tangled with him in the middle of Diagon Alley was really the Harry Potter he knew and loathed.  
Harry repeated dumbly.  
There was silence between them, the din of the street about them seeming to die down to a dull roar. Harry's fingers paused on the met clasps, something churning in the pit of his stomach. His forehead ached. His heart was beating too fast.  
Um... Potter?  
His voice broke the sudden spell, and Harry jumped. I-I'll get that, gimme a second, he said hastily, fiddling at the clasps. His fingers were shaking far too much to get it done in the amount of time he would have liked...  
That, and his mind refused to quit informing him that he was indeed straddling Draco Malfoy in the middle of a crowded street, and that Malfoy was still struggling a little, and Malfoy felt nice and supple beneath him, and if he didn't get off him soon there were going to be problems. And that wasn't helping his mindset. At all.  
Stupid Malfoy.  
Mr. Potter, I would like to assume you have a rather good excuse for accosting my son in public.  
The icy voice prickled along his spine, and Harry jumped, staring up from the bungled clasps.  
Into the eyes of Lucius Malfoy.


	3. 3 Tacet

  
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Author's Note On Muses- I'm not sure if this is how anyone else works or not, but I know that my muses have a tendency to speak to me on occasion. For instance, a while ago, my Sirius saw fit to announce that Remus doesn't like garlic bread. God knows where this came from, but he says so. Thus, one of Harry's lines in this chapter comes from one of those occasions. (It's what he says about Lucius and evil, if you're interested.) This was one of the observations that cemented him in my head as a muse in the first place.  
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Author's Note On Titles- The chapter titles are all musical terms, by the way. In case you're confused.  
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The chill that ran along his spine coalesced quickly into ice, ice that burned hard at his insides, and Harry froze where he remained on top of Malfoy. Those cool eyes he knew well, that thin face, that long platinum hair. He knew Lucius Malfoy, and that was why he couldn't force himself to look sheepish or embarrassed.  
The frozen eyes considered him, and he wanted to go for his wand. He wanted to vault off Draco and tackle him. He wanted to punch him so hard that his perfect teeth would fall out. Lucius Malfoy. Death Eater. Patron of all the right charities.  
A man who thought nothing of someday killing his only child.  
He'd seen that smugness all too often over the past two years. In face-to-face meetings. In his dreams. Malfoy knew that Harry had seen him in that graveyard... he knew he was a Death Eater, he knew the things he had done. He knew the things he would do. But Malfoy knew that he had tried to tell the Ministry, and the Ministry hadn't believed him.  
The Ministry would never believe him. And Lucius knew that too.  
"Well, Mr. Potter?"  
"Get _off_ me!" Draco Malfoy demanded, and his ear registered the sound of ripping cloth as the blond tore his clasp from Harry's. Now loosened from the uncomfortable tangle, Harry stood up quickly from where he had been straddling him, staring down as Malfoy as he flipped easily to his feet like...  
Like...  
Well, like a ferret. A ferret making a panicky escape from a much larger predator.  
Harry stared after him in bewilderment. Draco turned about in the street, torn robes curling about his frame with the ferocity of the movement.  
"There's nothing to concern yourself with, Father," he announced in the familiar gleeful condescension. "The clumsy brute just fell over me in the street." With a smirk, he placed white hands on his hips and leaned forward ever so slightly, effecting an air of mock concern. "What's the matter, Potter, the rot in your brain finally affecting your eyesight? What a shame."  
"Shut it, Malfoy," Harry retorted, eyes still focused unerringly on Lucius. Lucius, who had fallen silent when Draco had stood again, but whose eyes held more snide knowing than he could bear.  
_Everyone is expendable, Potter. And they will be expended, make no mistake of that. When the proper time comes.  
_The words haunted him, and had since that day. That day last year when he had been faced with a Death Eater in the Forbidden Forest, when that Death Eater had been Lucius Malfoy...   
They hadn't even fought. Only spoken, in cold and clipped tones.  
He should have killed him then.  
He forced himself to look away from the Death Eater to his son, to the grey eyes that taunted him so mercilessly. "Maybe you should watch where _you're_ going, Malfoy," he retorted. "Unless you're counting on your aura of slime to keep people away."  
"Harry, just ignore him," came Hermione's familiar placation. "Don't let him get to you."  
Harry fell silent.  
"Yes, Potter, listen to your mum," Malfoy smirked. "God forbid you get riled up and raise your blood pressure."  
He could tell that Malfoy hadn't expected him to react. Every time before, when Hermione had stepped in, he had just walked away. Swallowed his ire and walked away. Malfoy wasn't worth it, wasn't worth his time, his consideration.  
That was why he didn't have enough time to get away when Harry grabbed his collar, twisting it roughly, dragging him up so far he was nearly lifted off his feet. He glared into widened grey eyes, leaning directly into Malfoy's pale face.  
"I thought I told you to _shut it,_" he growled.  
Draco stared at him blankly for a moment, then struggled violently, pushing at him. "Unhand me this instant, Potter!" he snapped, the fronts of his shoes scrabbling frantically over the ground where they still held dubious purchase. "How _dare _you lay your filthy hands on me!" One thin hand latched onto his wrist, nails digging into his arm, a foot slamming repeatedly into his shin. "How dare you- you will pay dearly for this, Potter-!"  
Harry dragged the slim figure closer, intent on beating some sense into him, when a hand clamped onto his shoulder, fingers digging painfully into the bone and shoving him backwards, his fingers ripped from Draco's collar with a wrenching force that jolted through his entire being. Harry stumbled backwards, cradling his hand, heart pumping wildly, and watched Draco tumble into the road.  
The blond struggled to his feet again, dusting off his robes, face flushed with rage and humiliation. Lucius stood between them, lips twisted with something unreadable.   
"And to think I raised you," he said icily, softly. "I'm ashamed. To be left defenseless by an assault that childlish."  
Draco's grey eyes were cast down to the road, thin shoulders raised up sharply. His father dwarfed him... He had seemed huge when they were children, Lucius... but even now, Draco was small next to him.   
He seemed so agonizingly flimsy. So thin, so slight. Even compared to Harry himself, Draco was... small...  
"Come along, then," Lucius said crisply, and swirled off in a flash of black robes and platinum hair. Draco looked after him, then focused his steely eyes on Harry, hands clenched at his sides.   
"Don't think this is over, Potter!" he snapped, voice quivering with rage and emotion, and then followed his father like a moth to the flame.  
Harry stared after them silently, idly massaging his wounded wrist. What a way to start off the year...   
Yes, Draco Malfoy was his archrival. The Slytherin drove him mad and enjoyed doing it, there was no question of that. But that didn't mean he wanted to see him dead. Never had he wanted to see him dead.  
Or helpless.  
Malfoy was defenseless when it came to his father.   
And that would be the end of him.  
"That was amazing, Harry!" Ron sounded more enthusiastic than it was possible for a human being to be, clapping a hand on his shoulder and shaking him proudly. "I'd say y'took them BOTH down a notch!"  
Hermione's voice was subdued, soft, as she made her way to Harry's other side. "That man is evil," she said quietly, "evil if there ever was any..."  
"There's no such thing," Harry said abruptly, throat closing sharply, chest hurting.  
"What...?" Hermione lifted her head, sharp eyes seeking out his face in atypical confusion. Harry lowered his gaze to the ground, hands slack by his sides.  
"There's no such thing as good or evil," he said numbly. "There's only power... and what you do with it..."  
"Harry...?" Ron stopped walking, grabbing his shoulder. Harry looked up, a cool smile freezing his lips.  
"And I don't like what he's doing with his power," he said quietly. "So I'm gonna do something with mine."  
His friends were silent, long silent, the passerby ignoring them as they went about their business. What did it matter, to them? They were only three Hogwarts students there to go about their shopping, standing together, maybe contemplating their shopping lists. And if they knew the truth, what would they care? What would anyone care?  
Harry closed his eyes, tired. Drained. It was more than he cared to take, more than he wanted to deal with. Now or ever. He curled his hands into fists beneath his robes, quivering in the cold that lurked beneath his skin. His fingers rubbed compulsively against the ones next to them, on the legs of his jeans...  
Always trying to wipe away the bloodstains that haunted his nightmares.  
  



	4. 4 Fugue

  
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Author's Note On Progress- I'd like to thank some of my readers for faithfully reviewing every chapter, it makes me feel that you're sticking with the story. I'll be honest with you- my vision of this story changes every time I write a new chapter, every time someone points out something they've gleaned from whats happening. That's why I really love the review system... your comments help me to understand how the events I portray are viewed, and I'm flattered to know that some of the nuances I wanted are actually coming through. And right now, I'd like to thank my big sister for all the help she's been. If I haven't mentioned it already, I'm not comfortable writing Draco yet. And Lucius is a complete mystery to me. Every time I IM her in a panic, she's always there to give me suggestions, and at times dialogue. I couldnt do this without you, 'nee-chan.  
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Chapter Notes- I would like to thank Metallica and their CD "Master Of Puppets." Without them I doubt this chapter would have been successful.  
Additionally, this chapter ends on a vaguely comedic note. I'm aware that this seems out of character for the story so far. But anyone who has read my writing knows it's difficult for me to do straight angst for more than three chapters. There will be more vaguely comedic moments in this fic, as the pairing just lends itself to occasional comedy. So, just letting you all know Im not losing my touch. ^^; At least I hope not.  
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Blood stained his hands.  
It was undoubtable. The rivulets of crimson tracking along his palms were real, and if they weren't, they would be. With time, only with time. It was his future, it was his past, twisting his mind, slashing though real and imagined veins and arteries, killing him with guilt. With time, only with time...   
It was the darkness within the ice of those pale eyes that had told him the truth the very first time, _expendable... _ Death was inevitable, murder was inevitable, the blood that slickened his palms and painted his cheeks would come and there was no way to stop it.  
Always. Always there, the pain had always been there, the agony that tore into his brain with cruel ferocity. But never before had it brought these images with it, these visions of what could only be the future that awaited them all, the dusty streets running wet with the blood of children as their parents looked on.   
Voldemort had his body now, and yet he continued to crawl along the insides of Harry's mind, tickling each synapse with his ruined fingers and laughing that horrible laugh of the dead.   
So many would die.  
The dreams had become relentless. He could see even now, the skulls dashed to splinters against the sidewalk, the wet blackness staining the ground, staining their bodies. They were Muggles, maybe, or Squibs, defenseless against whatever atrocity that would be visited upon them. Stupidly awaiting their fate only to cry when it was given to them. There had been no need to scar their bodies, to spill their blood, but it was infinitely more satisfying that way.   
And wizards and witches would litter the streets, their eyes open and unseeing, the rats lured from their lairs by the scent of dead flesh, gnawing at the helpless hands, burrowing into the defenseless eyesockets to eat away the maggots that laid their eggs there. Victims of the Unforgivable Curses, maybe. Or maybe other spells that were too terrible to be named.  
It was always them, those nameless faces that entreated him from beyond their murders to _do something,_ to avenge them, to save them before they would have to die, save them from Voldemort because he was The Boy Who Lived, he was the only one who could protect them, and he would, no matter what he had to do, because it was his _duty...  
_It was his duty to see that they lived. His duty to slaughter the countless number who would slaughter them, the Death Eaters, the hidden supporters who may well be their neighbors, their employers, their lovers, their children! Their parents!  
It was murder or be murdered. The blood would stain him either way. No matter what, it would be his fault. No matter what. No matter what. No matter what. What was there left for him to do? Why should he even bother? He didn't want to die. He didn't want to die, not now, not ever, he was afraid of dying like his parents, afraid of dying and facing solitude forever, afraid to be alone in his guilt and his sin and his grief.   
And it was then that the truest of the fears would strike, then, in the depths of his anger, his bitterness, it was always then... First it would be Ron and Hermione. Maybe they would die to protect him, like his parents. Maybe they would fall in battle beside him, eyes turning to expressionless marble, or maybe it would be at home. Nursing their first child, exclaiming over her little toes and shining eyes and soft cheeks. And then they would lay prone on the pure white carpet while her newborn blood dripped from her corpse to paint it in red, her first and last youthful transgression. They would be buried side by side, their baby between them. A happy family cold in the ground, dead because some Death Eater felt like toying with Uncle Harry some more.  
Then it would be Sirius, wonderful, warm, Sirius... Sirius with his sharp blue eyes dulled after that hideous flash of sickly green light, his dear godfather sprawled over the ground, dead... or perhaps mortally wounded, gasping his last breaths, begging him not to be sad, telling him in that soft and sheepish way that he loved him like his own son like he had that one time. Brave Sirius, sacrificing his life for Harry the same way his parents had. Caring, tender Sirius... Sirius would die, and Sirius would be only too glad to die for his sake, and without Sirius he would be so truly alone... the blood that had once flowed so hotly congealing in frozen veins.   
It was those visions he couldn't stand, the only people he wanted to protect dead and gone- what good was he, if he couldnt save them? He would be a disgrace to the memory of his parents; to the strength they had given him. And his dear friends, who he loved more than he had ever loved life itself, how could he let them suffer anymore? Every day he lived and breathed he put them in danger, a danger he had to eradicate, if only for their sake...   
And last, always last, always last came the peculiar horror from which he had been unable to free himself. Always last, always the moment that sent him exploding out of slumber in terror, always... always that smooth, pale face rouged with blood, grey eyes wide and lifeless, yet perfectly preserved in the terror, the betrayal that had frozen on his face in the instant of his final death... Knowing that his own father had been the one to end the life he had created, that he had shaped and ruled with his own hands. A life that had been lived in constant knowledge of his danger, the eventuality of his murder. Born with knowledge of his final betrayal, like some corrupted and destroyed Christ, crucified on his beloved fathers reputation. The first misstep he made would be his last. To protect the family name.  
To protect the family name.  
How could he get that face out of his mind? Dead, helpless, terrified and betrayed... when he knew, he _knew _that it would come. He knew it. How could he not know, when the man had said it to his face!   
He would kill his own son.  
His only son.  
His child.  
Draco Malfoy was no Death Eater. He knew that, he had known it ever since their detention in the Forbidden Forest first year. Draco was a coward. He didn't have the strength to kill a living, breathing person, not when he could be caught and punished for it. No loyalty was enough to risk death, not to him.  
Except the one to his family.  
He couldn't forget those eyes, those dead eyes, the frozen skin, the lips that would never sneer, never smirk, never insult him again. He didn't want Malfoy dead. He had never wanted Malfoy dead. He didn't want anyone else's blood on his hands.  
It was Lucius or Draco. No matter the reality or lie of his dreams, he knew that much. The Death Eater would kill his son if he made a mistake. And Draco knew he would. Sooner or later. If it hadnt happened already, and Lucius was just biding his time.  
A man who would kill his own son.  
Draco, who seemed so small next to his father. Draco, who was helpless, defenseless, in the face of a man who thought nothing of murder. Draco, who was just like Hermione, he knew so much about magic, and yet lost to Harry in every duel theyd ever had... Knowledge and raw power were two different things, and if he werent so damn smart, he wouldnt have lived as long as he had... Draco, who had no hope of ever protecting himself from the man who had raised him and browbeaten him and led him and shaped him...   
Draco, who prided himself on being Harrys archrival, and had acquitted himself so well to the position, and yet... how could he wish the pain he had grown up with even on his rival, even if he was an odious snot like Draco? How could he do it, when he had prayed so many times as a child to wake up and find it all a dream, and it had only grown worse and worse and worse until he would have rather slit his wrists than live another day?  
How could he take away Draco's father?  
"Harry?"  
The worried voice seemed distant, muffled. He opened his eyes and searched through the grey, tired and worn, pushing aside the fog as the tiny figures in the distance came closer and closer.  
Hermione was staring at him, her brow furrowed in obvious worry. She had a book open under her hand. On the table. He could see Ron with a mug of Butterbeer. He noticed rather belatedly that he had one too. How had they gotten to the Leaky Cauldron?  
"Harry, are you all right?" It was Hermione again, her slim hand closing the book she had been perusing. "You haven't said a word since Malfoy left. Are you feeling all right?" In a gesture he would have labeled motherly, she pressed the back of one palm to her forehead and the other to his, gauging his temperature with a wise nod. "You're a bit warm, Harry. Have you been getting enough sleep?"  
Had it been anyone else asking him that question, the retort would have been swift and merciless. It was a ridiculously clinical diagnosis. But... it was Hermione.  
It was Hermione. His friend. Hermione.  
"I guess not," he lied quietly. He had been getting plenty of sleep. Most of it had been riddled with nightmares, but if anything, his problem was an excess of rest. When he was curled up in bed, he could pretend none of this was actually happening. "I'll do better since we're back to school, though. I'm fine, Hermione."   
"Hmmmm." It was obvious that she didn't quite believe him, as she never bothered to hide such thoughts. "All right. Just be careful, Harry. You have far too much to worry about as it is, without falling sick on top of it all."  
"Mmm." Harry stared into the amber depths of his drink.  
There was a silence at the table for some time, Hermione returning to her book and Ron obviously enjoying his drink. Harry hadn't touched his, it seemed. He couldn't stand the smell of it anymore. Not since... not since seeing the grief that poor house-elf had drowned away in its intoxication, the betrayal of Crouch, her blatant refusal of her freedom, the freedom Dobby loved so much...  
Dobby...  
Malfoy...  
It was more than he could stand, how everything came back to Lucius Malfoy, somehow.  
He had planned to take Cedric out for a few illegal rounds after they had won the Triwizards Tournament together. A victory for Hogwarts that had become the murder of a good, innocent boy, just because he was there with Harry Potter.   
For no other reason.  
Harry glanced up from his untouched drink, watching the two who sat with him surreptitiously. Hermione was reading, Ron was knocking back his drink, his eyes focused solely on the top of the girl's head as she scanned the pages. It was such a normal scene, the uncomfortable hiding of a mutual crush, each unknowing that the other felt the same way.  
It was as saddening as it was touching.  
After all, who knew how long they would have...?  
"And what a beautiful scene this is," whispered an all-too familiar voice directly in his ear. "How long will it be before they pollute the wizarding gene pool beyond repair, I wonder...?"  
Harry spun around, barely keeping his balance enough to remain in his rickety chair, to stare in an irritated bewilderment into cool grey eyes. "What do _you _want, Malfoy?" he managed to spit out.  
"I want many things, Potter," Malfoy answered smoothly, a familiar smirk twisting the thin lips hed seen stained with blood in so many nightmares. "An assurance that the entirety of the new Weasel generation is impotent is by no means the least."  
"I see you're without your bodyguards," Ron snapped quickly. "Not a good idea, Malfoy. Might get ya hurt."  
"Well, I see that you're not without your usual foul odor," Draco replied with the sardonic wit that was going to get him punched someday, if it hadn't already. "A handy assurance that no one will dare come near you, except perhaps your Mudblood friend there. And that would only indicate that her sense of smell is as bad as her taste."  
Harry heard Hermione restraining Ron behind him, and glared up at Malfoy. "What _is _it?" he enunciated. "Or do I have to draw you pictures before you get that you're not quite welcome?"  
Those eyes regarded him silently for a moment, then returned to the usual steel. "I want to speak with you in private, Potter," he said crisply. "Come along."  
"If you're gonna talk to Harry, you're doin' it in front of us," Ron demanded, tone noticeably surly.  
"No, I'm not," Draco refuted easily, then tapped one foot on the ground. "Are you _coming_, Potter? I don't have all night, you know."  
Harry regarded him silently, in the same fashion the other boy had just carried through. It wasn't as though he would be in any danger if he went. Malfoy was alone, and he did have his wand. And if the blond tried to pull anything...  
Harry was at least four inches taller than him. And a good deal broader.  
"This better be good," he said shortly, rising from the chair to his full height and looking down at him. Draco craned his neck, an obvious annoyance burning in his eyes.  
His archrival came up to his chin.  
Harry avoided a nasty grin and merely followed.  



	5. 5 Sforzando

  
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Authors Note- Well, I'll tell you the truth, everyone. This chapter is scaring the crap out of me. I say this before I've even written it, so I have no idea how it will turn out. But if there is a chapter I need feedback on, it's THIS ONE. Also, I'm experimenting a little with formatting. Let me know if this chapter is any better.  
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And After Finishing...- Okay, I know this one is rather short, and I apologize. But it took me twice the time and effort of any other chapter, so I think I'm entitled. ^_^ If anyone is picking up on the repeated Draco/Jesus imagery... I'm not trying to offend anyone, if that's an issue. Rest assured. But I have the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar, the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, and a few of the songs on it just clicked with the Harry muse, and so... well, of course, they were Judas songs... ^^; Yeah, the Harry/Judas and Draco/Jesus thing might seem a little backward, but keep with me. Maybe it'll make sense someday. And maybe it'll remain one of those many mysteries of my twisted mind. Just wait and see! XD  
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The night was dark and warm, the soft end of summer blanketing them in slick humidity as the two made their way outside. He followed Draco silently, still marveling over the slight form that preceded him. He couldn't be more than five seven... And so thin, so slender. He seemed... insubstantial... the pale skin that nearly glowed in the darkness, sharp grey eyes that reflected the cool moonlight...  
  
Draco stopped a few yards down the street, then whirled to face him, sleek black robes fanning a thin layer of dust up from the street, dried with the ravage of summer. Harry stopped abruptly, blinking owlishly into his face, down into his face... He couldn't get over that. The presence that had seemed to shadow so much of his life at Hogwarts... Draco Malfoy, his archrival, his antithesis, the one he could expect to see and be frustrated by every day... He just seemed so... _large_ in his memory...  
  
So much so that seeing him like this was as shocking as it was comical.  
  
Draco scowled at his scrutiny, then tossed his head and drew up to his full height, as little as that may be, and locked his gaze with Harry's in the familiar way that was both commanding and demanding at the same time. "So, Potter," he said haughtily, "It appears I need to straighten you out on a few things."  
  
"Oh?" Harry raised an eyebrow, regarding him quietly. Draco paused, as though waiting expectantly for more, then shook himself out of something that might well have been confusion and pushed on.  
  
"Yes," he taunted gleefully, white hands falling to his hips in the same position as before, baiting Harry while Lucius looked on... "It's seventh year, you know. I suppose you're expecting it will be smooth sailing for you, Potter, eh? Everyone feeling sorry for poor little orphan Potter because his mummy and daddy are dead and nasty old Lord Voldemort is following on his ratty little coattails? Well, don't fool yourself, Potter. Not a thing is going to go differently for you, not this year. Not _ever, _not while I live and breathe."  
  
Harry eyed him, gaze ravenous over the luminous face, biting back the hollow anger that had swelled in his thin breast at the first mention of his parents. "What do you mean, differently?" he hissed, taking a menacing step closer.   
  
Draco blinked at him, eyes blank in an apparent bewilderment. There was a moment of silence, and then he lifted his hands and spread them wide, aristocratic face affecting a curious and baffled cast, his tone that of one explaining an elementary concept to a stupid child. "I mean, Potter, that just because your pathetic little life has been especially topsy-turvy lately doesn't mean I'm about to stop showing you what an bumbling idiot you are in every way possible." His steely eyes narrowed, voice retaking that familiar malevolent tone, thin lips twisting. "Perhaps you've managed to fool some of the lesser minds around here, but I know better."   
  
"I see." Harry cast his eyes to the ground briefly. He was glad, in a way. He'd really expected no less, from his "rival". After all, if one thing had ever been consistent in his life, it was that Draco Malfoy was a slimy, inconsiderate prat.  
  
"Good. Now that is settled, I have better places to be than hanging around with _you._" Draco swirled by him with an audible humph, attempting to cast as much dirt on Harry's robe as possible. "It'll take me ages to get rid of the stink, from the Weasels and the Mudbloods and your apparent tendency to not take showers..."  
  
"I'm not gonna fight with you," Harry said quietly.  
  
He heard him stop dead in his tracks. The silence was palpable for a few long moments, and Harry clenched his fists by his sides, not knowing what to brace himself for.  
  
"Excuse me, Potter?"  
  
The words were icy, but quavering just the slightest with the impending explosion.   
  
"I said I'm not gonna fight with you anymore," Harry repeated, fists pressed into his thighs, eyes squeezing closed.  
  
He could feel the ice coalesce in the air between them, freezing and cracking until it shattered into fire, into the familiar inferno that came at least once a week.  
  
"So what are you going to do, Potter?!" He felt Draco whirl to face him again, felt the stare burning into his back. "You don't wanna fight anymore, hmm? You just wanna back off and live in peace in a little house somewhere where no one can find you, just waiting to die, hmm, like your _parents_? You want to give up?" His voice had become a snarl, tearing deep into Harry, tearing deep into him like the screams of his nightmares. "You can't change the rules now, Potter!"  
  
Harry dug a heel into the hard-packed dirt beneath his feet and spun, biting his lower lip, hands quivering frantically at his sides. "I said I'm not fighting anymore!" he growled, eyes burning, heart thudding into his breastbone. "I said it, and I meant it."  
  
"You set the rules, Potter! You were the one who-" Draco was brimming, grey eyes flashing with a cold silver frenzy, hands in fists like his own. "_You _were the one, Potter! You were the one who set the sides in this game! You set it seven years ago and you have _no right to change it now_!"   
  
"I don't care what I did _seven years ago_!" Harry snapped. "I'm not gonna fight you! You're not my enemy, Malfoy, no matter what you want to think. Your _father_ is my enemy, and I'm not gonna-"  
  
"_Damn you, Potter_."  
  
The harsh snarl stopped him cold. Draco's eyes glinted frozen steel, his thin lips bloodless. The blond took a sharp step backwards, the moonlight running fluid over his sleek hair. A bitter understanding was solid between them, a realization, a terrible knowledge of the nightmare he had suffered every moment for three years.  
  
"You arrogant fool." The calm in Draco's voice was tenuous at best, his rage breaking the surface easily no matter how hard he struggled to keep it hidden. "You- how _dare_ you even presume, Potter. I never asked you to _protect_ me." He spat out the word as if it fouled his mouth. "I don't want your _protection_, Potter, I'd rather die!"  
  
The explosion of the coiled muscles in his forearm came instantly, that pronounced jaw hard beneath his curled fist. He didn't even know why he'd hit him, he only knew that he had, and that was good enough for now. So he kept hitting him, over and over, numb with anger and fear and grief for pain that had yet to come, pain he knew would come someday and was dreading...  
  
He was amazed how easily and quickly Draco crumpled beneath his attack, the slender form tumbling backwards like he weighed nothing at all. He hadn't even had time to resist, not enough time to realize the blow was coming, let alone enough to dodge or be prepared. He only fell, fell with the cutting silence that haunted him, with barely a cry.   
  
Harry followed him down, knee slamming hard into the dirt street, hands seeking thin wrists and pinning Draco to the ground, with his weight and with his strength. The blond thrashed, violently. His heart was pounding. His fingers were shaking.  
  
"I don't care if you want my protection," he growled into Draco's ear, something in his forehead throbbing. "I don't _care_ what you want, because you've _got it._"  
  
The silence that followed that statement was one that rang in his ears, pounded deep in his chest, stabbing through him with every labored breath. Draco had gone still, deadly still beneath him, the thin wrist he held tensed. Harry staggered up to his knees, barely able to believe the passionate words that had passed his own lips. He hadn't let go of Draco's wrist, eyes still locked to the wraithlike form that lay prone and at his mercy. He'd hit him, and then he'd sworn to protect him. Those sharp grey eyes were wide with stunned disbelief.   
  
So vulnerable to him.   
  
So helpless.  
  
He remained knelt there, those panicked and bewildered eyes locked to his face, unable to let go, unable to look away. He couldn't let go of him, not now.   
  
He couldn't let go.  
  
So even after they had extricated themselves from one another without a single muttered word, even after those grey eyes had flicked over his figure and then away in the panic of prey under the predator's talons. Trapped, and yet...   
  
"Whether you want it or not," he repeated, the words empty of the fury that had borne them before, and yet... not without a curious sort of heat, something entirely new and all its own. "You've got it."  
  
The moonlight silhouetted the slim figure, shining white off his pale face and casting his thin black shadow over the summer-ravaged road, the road that ran slick with blood and children's cries in those dreams that haunted him and always would haunt him... And that figure, the broken and warped Messiah on his cross of loyalty, expensive robes torn and stained with blood both his own and alien...  
  
And even after the now-cold darkness of the night had taken him, he couldn't let go of those eyes, those baffled and helpless eyes. Even after the fury had broken and become little more than a quiet emptiness...  
  
What had he done?


	6. 6 Piacere

  
  
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Author's Note On Progress- *claps hands* This chapter, dear readers, marks the first appearance of my most favorite character EVER in the realm of these lovely books. Also, I'd like to warn up front that this chapter again departs from the angst, if only a little bit, into the wonderful land of sap I'm so well acquaintanced with.  
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He hadn't said a word about his confrontation with Draco.  
  
Nor would he. How could he even think to bring up the idea, to vent his confusion and residual anger, to Ron, to Hermione? It didn't matter. It wasn't worth worrying them over when he didn't understand it himself.  
  
He had sworn his protection on Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, who he loathed only second to the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Draco Malfoy, the arrogant Slytherin, the Seeker who had never bothered with petty rules, the wizard who seemed second only to Hermione in sheer intelligence. His rival, his constant irritation. The boy who had voiced such support of the genocide of Muggles and Mudbloods. The son of Lucius Malfoy.  
  
The sleek blond hair. The quicksilver eyes. The lithe silhouette that rose to the bluest skies, a spot of effortless green, forever smug and unreachable.   
  
The pale cheeks painted with blood. The face innocent in death. The sinuous figure shadowed in blood and fire, betrayed and ravaged with the affections of a father.  
  
There had been something in his eyes, something shining out of those raging eyes in the darkness, something he wanted to reach out and grasp with both his hands, something hot, something powerful... Something like a candle sheltered in between protective hands in the midst of a gale, burning on proud and haughty, but clinging so desperately to those moments of asylum, knowing that the moment those hands drew back, the wind would snuff it out, never to return...  
  
Helpless. Vulnerable. And yet refusing his hand. Rejecting his offer. Rejecting him, rejecting everything that he was tied up in those fingers he offered, everything that he was refused...  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Harry snapped out of his reverie, casting his gaze to the dark, warm eyes of Hermione Granger. "Is this the room?" he asked quietly, regarding the walnut door before them.   
  
"Yes," she said succinctly, brandishing the key. She had informed him after he had reentered The Leaky Cauldron that her parents had rented out an inn room for the three of them, since they were now old enough to stay in Diagon Alley by themselves. "There are two beds, so you and Ron could share, I suppose. Unless you want to fight for it."  
  
"I don't mind," Ron said genially. "'Nless you've got clammy feet, Harry. I had t' share a hotel bed with Percy once... thought I was gonna die."  
  
That thought accompanied by the look of remembered distaste on Ron's face forced a smile to his lips, and Harry patted him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll wear socks," he said kindly. "If you will."  
  
Somehow, that simple comment made them all laugh, and they continued in that bewildering mirth as Hermione unlocked the door and they jostled inside. It was a small room, but there were indeed two beds, and a chest of extra blankets. It was entirely lit by flickering candles, burning with a harmless magical light. Ron dumped his bag onto the floor between the two beds, while Hermione cast him a perturbed glance directly before tripping over it.   
  
Harry sat lightly on the farther bed, leaning back against the headboard. The confusion still broiled in his mind, refusing to let go of the synapses that it had claimed. What had he done...? And more importantly, why? Why did he concern himself with someone so untrustworthy, someone so distasteful, someone like Draco Malfoy... Why?  
  
And what on Earth was he going to do about it?  
  
The familiar sounds of Ron and Hermione squabbling was just a warm background noise nowadays, one he was well used to. Thus, when it was disrupted by the polite knock at the door, every sense he owned jangled in surprise. Harry sat bolt upright, one hand lifting almost automatically to his forehead to soothe the scar that wasnt even hurting. A nearly instinctive paranoia gnawed at him. Someone knew they were in here. Someone was going to come inside the room. A hand was already searching for his wand.   
  
Hermione cast a puzzled at the two boys, then took charge in characteristic Hermione fashion and peered out the peephole. Whoever had designed this inn had a fondness for Muggle things that nearly rivaled Arthur Weasley's, it seemed. After only an instant, her hand was working at the lock, flinging the door open.   
  
Ron and Harry were at her back in a rush of both curiousity and panic. Such hastiness seemed unlike the girl, and immediately provoked some sort of worry. But the visitor they greeted at the door was hardly the Dark Lord himself.  
  
In fact, it was rather the opposite.  
  
"Professor Lupin!" It was Hermione who found the words first, backing up hastily enough to bump into Ron, waving him and his companion inside. "I- This is quite the surprise- Hurry, come in-"  
  
Their former professor did so, urging the great black dog at his side through the doorway and pulling the door closed quickly enough to snag the end of his tattered robes on a hinge. The calm smile on his lips didn't abate in the slightest, though, as he simply tugged sharply on the fabric and ripped it free. "There's little more damage that can be done," he explained lightly. "But enough of that. Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, it's a pleasure to see you well. As well as-"  
  
Anything more he might have said was obscured by the sudden flurry of activity on the part of the creature anyone would have guessed to be his pet- a large and intimidating pet, perhaps, but that was a rather small eccentricity for the characters often found in the area. But that great black dog had lengthened and straightened, in the space of less than a second, into a tall man in threadbare robes.   
  
"Harry-" The exclamation was one of pained relief, and he found himself crushed in a powerful and desperate embrace. Harry closed his eyes and went limp into his godfather's arms, breathing deeply and feeling the air scrape his lungs.   
  
Security. Warmth. It had been so long... and so he clung to Sirius now, glasses digging into the bridge of his nose, heartbeat thudding against his own. Sirius. This was his shelter, his only protection anymore, this man who had so fiercely become the father he had never known, the father he had so longed for all these years. Sirius, who had given so much for him and would gladly give so much more.  
  
After a few pounding moments, surrounded in complete safety, Sirius Black drew away, if only enough to grasp Harrys face in his hands, the hands that had been so terrifyingly skeletal when they had first met, four years ago, hands that were now regaining their strength. The candlelight shadowed his face, dancing over his cheekbones, reflecting in the tightly bound hair that seemed now as satin as it must have been before Azkaban, shining off the intense blue of his sharp eyes.  
  
"Harry," he whispered again, staring deep into his eyes, deep into his soul, the relief and thrill tempered with the haunted fear he knew so well there. "Harry, thank God. You're alive."  
  



	7. 7 Dolore

  
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Author's Note- Okay. I'll admit this right now. I'm a sap. I can't help it. Angst is well and good, but I'm a sucker for the fics that just "cute" all over the place and leave you with that happy feeling. Hallmark commercials and Disney movies make me cry. Hell, G Gundam makes me cry. My CD case is equally divided between hard rock and pop. Not to mention the incredible amount of Broadway. And as I've mentioned, this fic is being heavily influenced by my "Highlights of Jesus Christ Superstar" CD, which I happen to be listening to right now. Harry's parts are influenced mostly by the songs (if you're familiar) "Heaven on Their Minds", "The Last Supper", and "Judas's Death". (It fits. Eerily.) Draco's parts are swayed by "Gethsemane", "The Temple", and in turn with Harry, "The Last Supper". Judas and Jesus, respectively. However, they aren't the only ones who have songs that appeal to their motivations. "I Dont Know How To Love Him", for instance, is Hermione's. And thus my point. I warned at the beginning that there would be Ron/Hermione. And there will be, oh, there will be. ^_^  
Oh, and for the reviewer who mentioned, "I hope Harry doesn't go Judas on Draco"...? *cackles* I suppose that depends on what you would term "going Judas"...   
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Author's Acknowledgment- This is a bit late in coming, perhaps, but better late than never. I have a dear friend named Clio, who trafficks every new chapter of this fic to a few of her friends without Internet access. Between you, me, and the lamppost, I'm not really well known as an author. Thus, every fan I have is a blessing- especially when they seem to enjoy my work so much. First of all, thanks to Clio, for putting up with my review-whoring and for being so dedicated. Secondly, I'd like to thank those people I've never met who so often spend their lunch shifts eagerly awaiting a new chapter. I've never had a fan group before. I'm glad you're enjoying this so far, and I'm gonna endeavor to meet your expectations.  
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The weak moonlight shone against her luminous skin, the slight wind playing through the tangled tresses. Dark eyes were focused unwaveringly on the stars ahead, the quiet strength he had known there since he was a child never abating. Even when she stood alone, like now, Hermione Granger was a rock.  
  
Ron ran calloused fingers through his mop of red hair self-consciously, dust stirring into his robes under his hesitant approach.   
They'd left Harry and Sirius to talk, Professor Lupin- or- not-Professor Lupin offering them a treat at the Cauldron. It'd been a while since then, and a while since not-Professor Lupin had excused himself for some unnamed "business". He was suspicious it had something to do with the ruckus that had been going on in Knockturn Alley yesterday... but they'd hear about it if it was important, no doubt.  
  
Hermione had gone outside a little while ago, and he'd thought it best to leave her alone, at first. She could take care of herself, after all. Maybe she just wanted some air.  
  
But after a few minutes, he'd gotten a litte worried.  
  
So here he was.  
  
It was baffling, really; he'd known her since she was eleven, since she was a poofball of hair and uneven teeth. Even then, Hermione had cowed him. She was smart, and she was rather mean sometimes, and she was forceful. When Hermione wanted something done, Hermione got it done. And that was something he had admired, no matter how hard it would have been to admit.  
  
And when the chips were down, Hermione didn't run away. He had never expected a girl to stand up and fight the way Hermione did, especially against the enemies they'd faced.   
  
He admired Hermione. He really did.   
  
He just didn't understand her sometimes.  
  
Especially now, when she stood alone in the darkness with her face cast up to the moon, the light streaming over her and painting her cheeks with silver, robes fluttering in the wind and clinging to her legs, her waist, her arms.  
  
"Are you worried, Ron?"  
  
He started at her voice, then blinked out of his reverie and stepped forward to her side. "Worried?" he queried, puzzled, peering down into those brilliant eyes. "Whad'ya mean, Hermione, worried about what?"  
  
One eyebrow quirked in the familiar 'don't you pay _any _attention?' look. "Harry," she said simply. "Are you worried about Harry too?"  
  
"'Course I am," Ron returned distractedly. He wanted to reach up to brush that lock of hair from her face... so many years ago, maybe he could have done it... but now...?  
  
"Oh, you don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?!" Hermione huffed, glaring up at him venomously. "I swear, Ron, you never pick these things up."  
  
"What things?" he snapped back, startled back to the familiar snipe-and-play. "You never make any sense, so I think we're even!"  
  
Hermione glared a few moments more, then shook her head and sighed. "He... he's changed, so much..." she said softly, something in her voice pained, saddened. "He's so much blacker now, Ron. I waited all summer to see him, to see if... if he'd gotten any better..."   
  
Waited all summer, just to see Harry... He felt sick to be jealous, and yet... yet, he couldn't bear that somehow. He knew Harry's life was lousy, and Harry was his best mate, and he'd do most anything for him. But it was true, those bitter words of his fourth year... everything exciting had always happened to Harry.  
  
He wouldn't be able to bear it if Hermione happened to Harry too.  
  
So he said nothing, only touched her shoulder with that familiar ache of emptiness in his heart. Hermione turned to him, her dark eyes soft with worry and emotion, then lay a slim hand against his arm. The touch startled him, but he didn't dare to move, only watching her face, the night wind playing over them both.  
  
"I just wish we could start all over again, Ron," Hermione whispered, dark lashes fluttering. "The three of us... I just wish we could start all over again."  
  
"Me too," he said softly, and that was all he could say.   
  
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The candlelight flickered fitfully, casting dancing shadows over the walls, shining over the satin black hair that lay over Sirius's shoulders, shimmering off the trace liquid of his fierce blue eyes. His face was still so thin, still skeletal after the twelve years of innocence in Azkaban, and yet the slender frame evinced nothing but power.  
  
They sat alone in the hotel room, knees brushing, the silence that blanketed them a simple and warm comfort. The other three had left them to speak in solitude some time ago, and yet, not a word had been issued since.  
  
Of all those in his world, Harry had known Sirius the least amount of time. It hadn't even been four years yet. And yet, it was with this man that he could sit without being choked by his nerves, his fear. It was Sirius who made him feel secure, Sirius who made him feel it was safe to be no more than what he was.  
  
Whatever that was.  
  
A thin hand settled on his knee, fingers squeezing lightly, and Harry glanced up over the rims of his glasses. Sirius parted his thin lips to speak, then sighed a little, haunted eyes watching him. "Harry," he said softly, "You know you're in danger."  
  
"That's nothing new, Sirius." The bitterness of his words did not go unnoticed, and Harry winced a little at the pain that lanced through his godfather's eyes. There was no use trying to reassure him, as he'd learned. Sirius had taken Harry on as his responsibility the moment he'd realized James and Lily Potter were dead. He'd begged Hagrid to let him do his duty as godfather, and when he had been rebuffed, gone to commit murder in the name of revenge for Harry's parents, and for Harry himself...  
  
"I know, Harry." That hand tightened on his knee, convulsively, and Harry bowed his head. "I know. But... Harry, there's something more, something I came to tell you."  
  
"Does it have to do with Lucius Malfoy?" he asked quietly.  
  
There was a silence, and then Sirius laughed. It was a pained, harsh sound, one that cut to the core. "I'm too late," he said grimly. "You already know."  
  
"Maybe." Harry lifted his head again, so tired, too tired to care anymore. "Tell me anyway. Maybe I'm wrong, for once."  
  
Sirius nodded, that exhaustion mirrored so well in the eyes that had seen just as much horror as his own, if not more, for so many more years. "All right," he conceded. "We- the Order, that is- got word a month ago of some concrete evidence linking Lucius Malfoy to the Death Eaters, something that might have been enough to get an arraignment from the Ministry. Something that had to slip from the family."  
  
"What-?" Something stabbed into his breastbone, and breath locked in his throat. "Something... from the family...? What- what do you mean?!"  
  
"I don't know," his godfather returned with heartbreaking honesty, biting his lower lip in an almost boyish gesture of worry. "I wasn't told, and neither was Remus. I just thought you should know, considering you know the boy."  
  
Numb.  
  
Harry stared dumbly at Sirius. Something had been let to slip.  
  
_Expendable. Everything is expendable.  
  
_The shadow of death on his face. The blood soaking the streets.  
  
"However," Sirius continued, "the major reason I had to tell you... Harry, you told the Ministry he was one of them, and they didn't believe you." Harry nodded mutely. "If this should get out further, and you were to raise those doubts again, it would ruin him and his name forever, no matter if there was a conviction or not. Malfoy has always been one to sacrifice everything for his name, no matter the cost. So-"  
  
"So he'll want to shut me up," Harry completed quietly. "As well as quell the leak."  
  
Sirius's eyes held nothing but understanding and sad acknowledgment.  
  
"Even though Draco is his son," Harry whispered, barely conscious of his own voice, "even though..."  
  
"Harry." Sirius touched his back, and Harry shuddered, shaking his head.  
  
"You don't understand, Sirius," he managed, voice breaking as would a child's. "Sirius, Malfoy told me... once Draco screwed up, he'd kill him himself. His own son, Sirius, his only child. And Draco is a little snot, Sirius, a slimy little prat and I want to lock him in a broom closet and beat him senseless, but Lucius will kill him and I swore to him that I'd protect him whether he wanted it or not, Sirius, and- and-"  
  
He collapsed into the proffered clasp of his arms, shaking in utter silence. Blood running black in the streets. Parents crying for their children. And yet, there was no grief for Draco Malfoy, only the unending laughter, casting lots for his fortune and reveling in their pristine virtue...  
  
That was the future, the future that tortured his dreams, and the one he couldn't allow, he had to stop it, stop the laughter...   
  
Sirius's thin hands stroked his back, smoothing his hair back, a silent comfort, the worried touch of a parent, a father, a man worried for the child he held as his own, the child who had never been a child in his eyes...  
  
"It isn't your responsibility, Harry," he murmured soothingly, rocking him, holding him. "It isn't your responsibility. You don't have to do a thing..."  
  
"I can't," he whimpered, fingers clawing into his forehead, "I can't, I can't... I can't watch him die like some cornered animal, I can't let him kill himself with this, Sirius, I can't let him die...!"  
  
Maybe it was Draco's purpose to be the sacrificial lamb. To die for the family name. He had been born and raised to do that one day. It wasn't his place to interfere. It didn't matter what he thought. He was just a bystander. It didn't matter what he thought, what he did, what he wanted. It didn't matter, it just didn't matter.   
  
He wasn't any different from anyone else. He wasn't special. He should suffer like anyone else. Why should he bother? Why should he bother to try to save a life that never should have been? Why should he care about someone who had done nothing but scorn him all his life? Shouldn't he just stand back and let Draco do whatever he wanted?  
  
And stain himself with innocent blood. To let a boy be murdered. To be saddled with his murder.  
  
Why did he care? Oh, God, why did he care?  
  
  



	8. 8 Affretando

  
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Author's Note On Progress- Yes, this is the eighth chapter, dear readers, and I apologize for taking so long to write it. ^^; I'd like to say this now... yes, this is shaping up to be another Absurdly-Long-And-Convoluted-Vee-Sempai-Fic(TM). Thus, the actual slash may not be happening IMMEDIATELY, as I am attempting to be realistic. (God forbid. ^^;) Draco may not be in every chapter, but I can assure you he'll be showing up more and more once they get to school. Other characters will be playing major parts, and may have some time devoted to them alone. If this bores you, you can just skip those chapters. But they're going to be there, and I'll warn you of that now. I hope that doesn't bother anyone. And now, on with the story! Let's hope it actually GETS somewhere this time!  
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Addendum- Oh, wait a second, no story just yet. I wanted to mention... I do a lot of reading fic parodies, such as "Outline of a Harry/Draco Slash" and "The Ultimate Harry Potter Cliche Catalogue", so as to make sure I avoid those pitfalls. That, and they're funny. But I noticed that the "train scene" is a hideous cliche, and became a little nervous. Because, of course, it won't do to have them all just appear at school with no explanation. Then, I realized something. The scene happens in _every book._ So, I definitely can't leave it out, making it a necessary cliche, which I hate. So, all I can do is try to do it in an original fashion.  
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Platform nine and three-quarters.  
  
To the unsuspecting eye, it was nothing more than a column in between platforms nine and ten, and the families who stood there hugging their children were undoubtably sending them off to boarding school on trains departing from either of those two, staying out of the crowds, or perhaps just leaving them halfway. No Muggle ever saw the children disappear through those bricks with their luggage, and it was only right that it should be that way.   
  
"Mum should be here soon with Ginny..." Ron observed with more than a little exasperation, checking above the crowds with only a little inclination of his neck. "Still won't let the girl come on her own. Too young, she says."  
  
"Well, she had better hurry," Harry reminded. "Or we're going to be late."  
  
"And should you be late, there's no flying car for you to steal this year, Ronald Weasley," a familiar voice said archly from directly behind them.  
  
With the guilty twitch that all teenagers knew so well, wizard or Muggle, orphaned or blessed with five siblings, Harry, Hermione, and Ron whirled about in redfaced embarrassment to face Molly Weasley, her only daughter in tow. Ron and Harry were repentant, at least; Hermione was struggling to hide a smirk. Harry suspected she had been holding herself in check over that incident for years... it had been a bit humiliating.  
  
Mrs. Weasley's face burst into a fond smile as she gazed on the three of them, and it was only a moment before she gathered all of her gangly son up into a tight embrace, squeezing him close. "Have a good year, sweetheart," she crooned, kissing his cheeks, causing a near explosion of every blood vessel in his face. After she had finished with Ron, she hugged Hermione, then Harry. Harry hugged her back obediently, and closed his eyes against the flame of her red hair when her arms lingered about him, holding him tightly to her bosom with the familiar reluctance to release he had felt only that morning from his godfather. It was as if they feared they would never see him again...  
  
And he couldn't blame them for that.  
  
Mrs. Weasley let him go after a few more seconds, then gazed up into his face, eyes a little too bright. "You take care of yourself, young man," she ordered.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," he returned with a touch of hopeless regret. "I'll try."  
  
She turned to Ron, fussing with the buttons on his coat. "And _you_," she continued sternly. "You watch after him, and your little sister. Any harm comes to a hair on her head-"  
  
"And I'll get a Howler big enough to choke on," Ron completed dutifully, eyes twinkling all the same. "Yes, mum."  
  
Mrs. Weasley smiled at him again, then turned back to Hermione. There was the briefest of silences, then she leaned conspiratorially to her ear. "I'd bother him to watch you too, dear, but somehow I think he already is." Then she winked and returned to straightening Ginny's collar. Hermione, predictably, turned bright red and began rummaging in her bag, muttering something about checking to make she had all her textbooks. Harry found a faint smile on his lips. What a long way the two of them had come... It was only fourth year Mrs. Weasley had shunned Hermione for her supposed cheating on Harry with Viktor Krum...   
  
"Well, it's about time you four got going," the redheaded woman said briskly, clapping her hands together and hustling her only daughter towards the column. "Have a good trip, now."  
  
Ginny was the first to go, disappearing swiftly through the brick column, then Ron, then Hermione... Harry paused a moment to give Mrs. Weasley a reassuring smile that ached empty somewhere inside, then took a deep breath and pushed through.  
  
***  
  
The three had been in their chosen train compartment for about half an hour now. The witch had been by with her cart already, and silence reigned, conversation forsaken in favor of candy and textbooks. It was quiet and calm, quieter than Harry had known it for some time... alone with his friends... and his thoughts...  
  
The door to their compartment slid open.  
  
Hermione's eyes rose from her Transfiguration textbook, and Harry and Ron looked up from their heated dispute over the last chocolate frog. Why should this year be any different from any other, after all...?  
  
Yet the cold grey eyes they had been expecting were not the ones that gazed down upon them. Rather than Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle out for their annual Gryffindor terrorizing, the intruder was one Ginny Weasley, her large brown eyes distressed, thin shoulders heaving as she gasped for breath.  
  
"Ginny-?" Ron jumped up, upsetting the candy wrappers that had been resting quite peacefully in his lap. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Have you seen a little box with my name on it?" Her cheeks were red from more than exertion, it seemed. "I- I had it when we got on the train, I thought -" The girl seemed genuinely distressed.  
  
"What was in the box, Ginny?" Hermione asked soothingly, closing her book and putting it to one side. "Maybe your mother packed it with the rest of your things."  
  
"No..." Ginny flushed even deeper, looking at her feet. "I found it on top of my potions book, after we came to the platform... It was a present, but I don't know who put it there."  
  
Hermione giggled unexpectedly, and all three eyed her with more than a little confusion. "You have an admirer, Ginny," she explained with a sisterly smile. "A secret admirer... I wonder who it could be?"  
  
"Mental," Ron muttered under his breath, shaking his head, then turned his attention worriedly back to his sister. "Did anybody bump into you or something when you were coming on? Maybe it fell out on the stairs, did you look?"  
  
"Well-" Her eyes lit up. "Well, a group of Slytherins did bump into me... I didn't think of asking them, should I? I'll go ask Millicent-"  
  
"Good luck!" Ron snorted, shaking his head. "You're never gonna get it from one of those girls! They probably went and handed it right to Malfoy."  
  
"Oh..." Ginny's face fell, and she regarded the floor despondently. "I guess you're right..." Her voice quieted, and she sighed. "I'll just go get something to drink, then... I am rather thirsty from all this running about..."  
  
Harry watched her turn her back, something gnawing deep at his breastbone. Poor Ginny... she had been so afraid of confrontation for as long as he had known her. She had probably thought for a moment that a friendly conversation would get her mysterious gift back. While Draco Malfoy and his supposed henchmen were most likely laughing at her right now. Laughing that they had taken a simple, girlish joy away from the child who had opened the Chamber of Secrets in her first year. A girl who had already nearly suffered what so many would in the years to come. A girl who had looked Tom Marvolo Riddle in the face and survived.   
  
That same face that would kill them all.  
  
Heat choked him, and Harry found himself on his feet, pushing past Ginny and stalking down the carpeted hallway. That same face that would kill them all. Those cold eyes , twisted lips, slick dark hair... laughing... He wasn't going to let them laugh at her, not when she had suffered. Not when she had survived.  
  
He would not let Draco Malfoy laugh at her. Not while he lived.  
  
He pulled back compartment doors and glanced inside, searching for those eyes, that pale pointed face, searching for him with a rabid hunger that gnawed deep. It wasn't fair that he could laugh, when he knew what awaited him. He could ignore what lingered on his horizon and delight in his childish torments as much as he could any other year... It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair, and he wasn't going to stand for it, not now...  
  
Finally, his hands closed on the right door and slammed it back, glasses askew, hair tousled more than usual from his furious dash.  
  
Crabbe and Goyle had already started up, piggish faces screwed up in some attempt at intimidation. Harry spared them no more than a glance, pushing past and through their makeshift wall of substantial flesh. They could try to beat him up later if they wanted, he didn't care much... but as for now...  
  
His forearm found a thin shoulder, then a pronounced clavicle, all his weight thrown against the slim figure he had sought. A gasp of surprise forced its way through Draco's throat, struggling past Harry's wrist, bright grey eyes staring into his.  
  
Harry pinned Draco Malfoy to the wall with his arm and his hips, his weight, a knee knocking slim legs apart and his left hand throwing one arm against the window. Draco struggled almost half-heartedly, lips twisted in an expectant smirk, one thin eyebrow raised as he considered the boy who held him crucified on the side of the train.   
  
"Harry-!" He could hear Hermione from the hallway, her strident voice horrified. "What on Earth are you _doing?!_ "  
  
"I'll tell you what he'd doing, Granger," Draco drawled, his lips moving against Harry's cheek. His voice dropped, falling to a whisper seemingly meant for Harry alone. "He's forgetting how to play by the rules... Of course, when did our dear wonderful Harry Potter _ever _care about rules? Tsk..."  
  
"Where is it, Malfoy?" Harry snarled, pushing his wrist harder into the blond's throat. "Where's Ginny's box?"  
  
"Oh, of course, he's only assaulting my fair, helpless body in the name of his Weasel _girlfriend_ -" The rest of his words gurgled in his throat as Harry ground his arm deeper.  
  
He leaned in closer, glaring venomously. "Stop messing around," he hissed. "Give it back, Malfoy. _Now."_  
  
"Mmmm... Been eating chocolate frogs, Potter? Your breath smells heavenly." Draco smirked. "Though I'm sure I'd appreciate it more were I not marinating in it."  
  
"Malfoy..." he growled, shoving him into the wall, pinning his sharp hipbones against the slender thighs, lifting the blond off his tenuous balance on his feet. "_Give me the box."  
_  
Draco eyed him, then gave a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes. "I can't give you the box if you don't let me _down,_ you great brute." Something flashed in his eyes on those last words, something hot, something that scalded deep within his chest...  
  
Harry felt his arms go weak, and he backed away, letting Draco slide back to the floor. Grey eyes considered him, gazing out of that frail engima, and Harry turned his back, shivering, suddenly flooded with an unwavering, careless heat.  
  
"Here, Granger," Draco said coolly, evidentally handing her the box. "Take it, I've no use for the silly thing anyway."  
  
There was a brief silence, in which Hermione seemed to take her leave. Harry remained staring at the floor, hands limp at his sides. He heard Crabbe and Goyle start towards him, then Draco let out a incredulous snort.  
  
"Oh, so _now_ you two go to do your jobs!" he snapped. "Wonderful!" After another silence, this one shaded with guilt, Draco coughed. "Of course..." His voice had turned snide, sly. "Since Potter himself is doing such a _wonderful _job in protecting me himself..."  
  
"Shut it, Malfoy." Harry spun and fixed a dark glare on him, feeling returning to his hands as they clenched by his side. Their eyes met, emerald to grey, and locked, if for just a moment... a candle flame fluttering in a gale...  
  
"This year won't be a free ride for you either, Draco Malfoy," Harry whispered, heat rising. "Not while I live."  
  
"I'm not frightened of you, Potter."  
  
Harry stood to his full height, then stalked to the door. And yet, before he returned to the hallway, to the safety of his own compartment with Ron and Hermione...  
  
His hand was on Draco's fine-boned chin, tilting up that pale face, the face that continued to sneer even as the grey eyes flew wide in startled surprise. His thumb pressed deep into his jaw, fingers touching that white skin, tracing the imagined trails of blood...  
  
"Every time you turn your back," Harry murmured, "I'll be there."


	9. 9 Pesante

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Author's Constant Random Babbling- Hi again! Chapter Nine, coming right up. I would like to proudly announce that last chapter was the first Draco scene to date I didn't run past my sister and Malfoy consultant, and I think it came out okay… ^^; He's going to be popping up more and more as the fic gets darker and more… er, I dunno, sexually charged? It's definitely gonna happen, soo… I mean, in all honesty, they are both seventeen-year-old boys. *shrugs*  And by the way, addressing a review that may have been a while ago… I can see where you'd get the idea, but we'll soon learn that Draco is anything but helpless…

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Notes On This Chapter- All right, I realize Lucius doesn't have a cane in the books. But, as I see it, Rowling is consulting on the movies, so I can consider them a further development of canon. Besides, I thought that cane was damn cool. Speaking of the second movie… did anyone notice Draco's kleptomaniac tendencies? And, just for my dear friend Ally… SNAPEAGE!

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            "All right there, Harry?"

            The rough voice was a comforting one, one he had been longing to hear ever since the train had petered out to a stop at the Hogwarts station. Maybe it was because it had been that same voice that had given him life, so long ago, _you're a wizard, Harry_… but Hagrid's voice had always been a reassurance to him. The mere sight of the half-giant made him feel like a child again. Safe, protected…

            But that was useless to think on, so he merely managed a smile and nod, responding with a cheerful "All right, Hagrid!" It wouldn't serve any purpose to worry him… and raising a hand to massage at his scar, Harry pushed through the crowds of first-years. He could hear Ron and Hermione tripping along behind him, sniping at each other just like always, and he almost smiled again. Almost…

            The late summer air smelt of rain, and he found himself hurrying along with the other students to make it inside. The first drops had just hit the grass outside as he pushed through the doors ahead of Ron and Hermione, and it was only seconds later that they had swollen into a full downpour, soaking the unlucky ones still outside the castle. A sigh of mild relief escaped his lips. He had always hated being rained on… it muddled up his glasses and he spent all the time tripping over himself.

            "Wonder who the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's gonna be…" Ron's musing held the bored note of familiarity, and Harry glanced at him, a wry half-smile coming to his lips.

            "You realise we've said that every year," he reminded. "We should stop wondering and start casting lots."

            "Seven to one it's a vampire, right?" Ron's eyes twinkled, and he shoved playfully at Harry's arm, causing him to stumble into Hermione. The dark-haired girl merely sniffed and ignored their horseplay, rummaging in her bag and murmuring absently to herself about her advanced Transfiguration study. Somewhere Harry found it in himself to grin and shove Ron back. Somewhere he found it in himself to laugh with his best friends, to pelt the back of Draco's head with sweat-flavored Every Flavor Beans and look innocently at the ceiling whenever he spun around, forgetting that this halcyon feel would never last the year, ignoring that the blond Slytherin was no longer Malfoy, but Draco, avoiding the words that rang in his ears, _whether you want it or not, you've got it…_Somehow, it was just the same, just the same until the usual clamour behind them dimmed and faded to near nothing, to a silence that was so out of place in Hogwarts hallways as to be unsettling. 

            Harry dropped the bean he held and turned, oblivious to Seamus bouncing off him as he stood stock-still in the middle of the milling students, deaf to Ron and Hermione's questions.  It was less of a curiousity and much more a burning need to know what had disrupted the comfortable sameness of this yearly ritual. And yet, to see it, the disruption seemed obvious, painfully so. 

            Lucius Malfoy.

            He could see the figure far down the hallway, that spot of darkness amongst black robes, towering over the first year students being herded into a side room for sorting preparation. Long silver-white hair coursing over broad shoulders. A powerful hand curved around the carved metal head of his cane. Piercing, icy eyes darting over the crowd to focus tightly on his prey.

            Harry didn't have to follow that gaze to know where it led; to the pale slip of moonlight that sauntered ahead of him in all his Slytherin finery. To Draco.

            Lucius's presence was no real surprise, in and of itself. It wasn't the first year the elder Malfoy had taken it upon himself to visit Hogwarts, and yet… and yet…

            Seeing Lucius had always brought a peculiar taste to his mouth, a taste of rusted steel and blood, of stilted fear and loathing. A feeling that had been alien to him until staring into the reptilian eyes of Riddle's basilisk, the sword of Godric Gryffindor clutched in his twelve-year-old hands. A feeling he had grown so accustomed to now, the feeling of unfathomable power lapping at his heels. But this, this was something he couldn't explain, the sudden ice coating his innards, the choking explosion in the base of his throat…

            Rage. Terror. Disgust.

            But more than anything else, the overwhelming knowledge that he couldn't allow that distance between father and son to close. 

            In times that required fast thinking, Harry had learned that everyone reacted differently. Ron usually found something to punch. Hermione relied on logic and knowledge. But he had always relied on instinct. It had been instinct that had told him to put a hand to Quirrel's face to protect himself and the Philosopher's Stone. It had been instinct that had led him to trust Sirius for the first time. 

            And so it was his instinct that threw his body into a tight swing, trained Seeker grace bringing him to exactly where he wanted to be. 

            "_Potter_-" Grey eyes flew wide, pale face framed by loose strands of gilded hair, thin chest heaving where Harry's forearm had pinned him to the cold stone wall. "Potter, what the _Hell_ do you think you're doing?!"

            "Fight with me," Harry hissed against Draco's ear, his free hand fisting in the front of the smaller boy's robes. "Now. Loudly."

            "What do you think I'm bloody _doing_- OW! Let GO!" Draco struggled wildly, straining to keep his feet on the ground as Harry dragged him up. "_Stoppit_, Potter! You're going to pay for this-"

            Harry tensed his arms and shoved Draco's slender body forward, ramming his back hard into the cold stone wall. The yelp of surprise and pain that huffed from Draco's lungs pained him somewhere, somehow, but he ignored the pangs and summoned up all the ignominy that the blond had suffered him through all these years, and forced it into violence-

            "_Mr. Potter, unhand him at once!_"

            The familiar voice coursed over him, weakening every limb with relief, and he crumpled back, clenched hands uncurling from Draco's wrinkled robes. There was barely time to catch the bewilderment in those quicksilver eyes before cold hands seized his shoulders, dragging him roughly away from the wall, manhandling him to the other side of the corridor and inside a small office, the crowds of students parting in mingled respect and trepidation for the owner of those musty, swirling black robes.

            Harry fell into a rickety wooden chair, forehead pounding, and he attempted to calm his breathing while Draco was ushered into the room with considerably more politeness. Once the door slammed shut, squealing on its hinges, Harry lifted his eyes to meet the glinting black ones of one Severus Snape. 

            "I should have expected no less from you, Potter," came that silken growl, so incongruous with the sallow face and rather unpleasant nose. "I'll see that this costs no less than fifty points from Gryffindor. And so early in the year…" Snape tutted somewhat insincerely. "Mr. Malfoy, shall I send for Madam Pomfrey?"

             "Thank you, Professor, but I think you managed to pull Potter off me before he did any lasting damage." The smugness in Draco's voice was expected. Normal. And for that much, Harry was grateful.

            "And now, as for your actual punishment-" The glittering, almost manic joy in Snape's eyes was flattened by the sudden knock at the heavy door. He settled into a brief glare at Harry, as though the intrusion was his fault, and then swooped over to the door. After a brief discussion with whoever had knocked, who seemed to be Professor Sprout, he growled under his breath and turned back. 

            "I trust you can keep yourself under control for five minutes while I attend to this matter, Mr. Potter…" His voice fairly dripped with malice, and Harry forced back a chortle.

            "Yes, Professor."

            Silence greeted Snape's exit, and Harry breathed deeply, trying to calm. It was over with now, after all… And there was no need to worry anymore, until the next time, at least…

            "Very clever, Potter."

            Draco's dry comment startled him, and Harry sprang to his feet without regard for the continual throbbing in the side of his head. The pale Slytherin was regarding him expressionlessly from his vantage point by the door. His thin lips twisted in a smirk of sorts, a wry smile that seemed thin and wavering, defeated, and yet he sauntered forward with as much poise as he had ever had.

            "I'm assuming you staged that poor excuse for a brawl in order to attract attention and thus minimize the chances my dear father would be able to have his evil, despicable way with me…" he drawled softly, perching lightly on the edge of the desk Snape had been sitting behind. "Am I correct, Potter?"

            "I reckon you're smarter than you look," Harry retorted. "And it worked, so unless you have a death wish I wasn't aware of, I'd believe you owe me." 

            "Owe you, eh…" Draco fell silent, then slid gracefully down from the old wooden desk, trailing pale, slender fingers over its surface as though deep in thought and caring little for what he caressed. He hovered there, in midstep, and the small office fell dead silent.

            Harry caught Draco's wrist only a split second before the curled fist met his jaw, staring steadily into blazing grey eyes. After a beat, Draco laughed, a bitter and cheerless sound, but a laugh nonetheless. And yet, Harry felt his grip relaxing, and he allowed Draco's knuckles to bounce very lightly off his cheekbone before his hand fell back to his side. 

            "Let me ask you something, Potter… or, rather…" Draco cocked his head, a peculiar look coming over his pale face, something that slid warmly behind the pulse in his throat to touch beneath his breastbone. "Let me ask you something… _Harry_…"

            That quiet, tender warmth caught fire, blazing through him to touch even the ends of his fingertips. That single word, that single utterance of his given name from lips that never condescended to speak it, to acknowledge the intimacy that it would create. The intimacy that, somehow, already existed in that constant space between them… The even, intense intimacy that had always existed between them.

            And so he listened.

            Draco took one step forward, his neck craning to keep his grey eyes squarely on Harry's face. "Do you know what it's like," he said softly, "to know for certain that without something, you'd die…? To be certain of that since you can remember, to dream of that one thing that will sustain you, because you don't want to die… and yet, when you find that thing, it turns you away and laughs in your face, and you hate it more than anything in the world, and yet… and yet, you know you still need it…?"

            Harry clenched his jaw. That gentle warmth blazed in his throat, uncomfortably hot… Even behind those quiet words, in those impassive grey eyes, somewhere there was anger, bitter and resigned anger, burning fiercely and undying.

            "You were the one who turned me away." Draco laid a slender hand against the pounding heartbeat beneath his thin robes, the strangely affectionate gesture made all the more painful by the fatalism in his eyes. "You were the one, _Harry_. Do what you will; it's no concern of mine. But don't expect me to be grateful."


End file.
